Cold hands,
Are frozen in the air,
Steady still if not for rampant jitters,
Clawing for the wind,
Dancing round snaking zips,
And fumbling on icy metal,
Open please, dear bag of mine,
Twice frosted though contents now the same,

Oh... a little cut,
From frozen metal shining,
A little more red than I last appreciated,
As always...
Far more weighty than we seem to grasp,
An intrusion of morality into our ignorance,

Oh... how scarlet,
You stain us with that which cannot be unstained.